


Providence

by RPGgirl514



Category: As Above So Below (2014)
Genre: Chance Meetings, Gen, Pre-Movie(s), University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:52:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4803566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RPGgirl514/pseuds/RPGgirl514
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a trip to the States, Scarlett meets two strangers who change her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Providence

**Author's Note:**

> Set near the beginning of the movie, between Iran and Paris.

Scarlett set down her copy of _A Tale of Two Cities_ and looked out the window, watching the tips of the plane wings skim the clouds. The ocean sparkled miles below them. She sipped her ginger ale, not because she was particularly thirsty but rather for something to do. Her eyes burned, yearning for sleep, but she never slept very well on planes. She supposed she should try to get some rest, however, since she had a long few days ahead of her. Scarlett settled back and closed her eyes.

“Business or pleasure?”

She looked over at her seat-mate. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, dear, you’re trying to sleep, aren’t you?” said the woman. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I’m sorry to disturb you.” She had a kind, heart-shaped face and white hair like candy floss. Scarlett imagined she was the type of lady who made chocolate chip cookies, read Mary Higgins Clark novels, and kept photographs of her grandchildren in her handbag.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Scarlett said. “I never can sleep well on planes. Er, business, I suppose. I’m a professor of archaeology. I’m delivering a guest lecture at Brown.”

“That’s wonderful!” said the woman. “And a _professor_ ; my, and to have achieved it at such a young age.” She held out her hand. “I’m Violet.”

Scarlett smiled. “How curious. My name is Scarlett.”

Violet’s laughter was like tinkling bells. “Well, isn’t that a trip!” Scarlett noticed her accent was American.

“Are you returning home then? What brought you to London?”

“I was visiting my daughter. She’s married to a London boy.”

“That’s lovely,” Scarlett said, and she meant it.

“She’s about your age, or perhaps a few years older,” said Violet. “Have you got a special young man back in England?  Or perhaps in America?” She winked.

Scarlett blushed at the speed by which her thoughts jumped to George. Her smile was genuine but sad. “No, not exactly.”

“That sounds a little complicated.” Violet grinned mischievously. “I’m a brash American, dear, so I have to pry.”

“I haven’t seen him in months,” Scarlett said. She felt giddy sharing memories of George with someone else. To her surprise, she hadn’t spoken of him to anyone until now, not since her return from Iran.  Talking to Violet somehow made him, and everything they’d been through together, seem  _real_ .  “We spent a week in Turkey together on an expedition, but that was the last I saw of him. It . . . didn’t end well.” Scarlett elected not to mention that was entirely her fault.

Violet gave her a compassionate look. “I’m sorry. I can tell you really care about him. But don’t give up hope. If there is one thing I’ve learned in my years on this earth, life has a funny way of working out for the best.”

Scarlett smiled. “I don’t think so. But you’re very kind.”

Violet patted her knee lightly. “That’s alright dear.” She gestured at the paperback sitting on Scarlett’s tray table. “What are you reading there?”

“Oh, this? _A Tale of Two Cities._ ”

“Classic literature,” Violet said approvingly.  “Of course, a professor like you, dear; you’re probably very well-read.  It looks like you’ve read it many times before.”

“Oh, no!” Scarlett said. “It’s not mine . . . It belonged to the man I was telling you about. It was his favorite book. He lent it to me before -- before we parted ways.”  Scarlett lapsed into silence, George’s voice loud in her head.   _“Keep it,” he had said._

“People’s favorite books can say a lot about them,” said Violet wisely. “It’s almost like having a piece of them still with us.” She pulled up her handbag and rooted around in it, taking out a slim hardbound book. “My Stanley loved this book, and I carry it with me whenever I travel. You never know when you’ll have a little time to read. I swear, I could quote this novel from cover to cover.”

Scarlett glanced at the title -- _The Hobbit_. “Tolkien. An English author. Quite fitting.”

“I thought so as well. My daughter loves it almost as much as Stan did.  He used to read it aloud to her as a child.  Now she reads it to her boys."

“Stan isn't traveling with you?” Scarlett was too well-raised to pry, but the question was implied.

“He passed four years ago this August,” Violet said, twisting her wedding ring around her finger.  “Pancreatic cancer.  Stanley was the love of my life.  For awhile I didn’t think I could go on without him.”

Scarlett thought of her father at once.  “How did you?”

“It was hard at first,” Violet admitted.  “But I knew Stan would want me to stay strong.  I found ways to honor his legacy, like reading this.”  She tapped the book on her lap.  “I kept busy, spent time working in my garden, and leaned on family and friends when I needed to.  You’ve lost someone yourself?”

Scarlett nodded, her throat unexpectedly thick.  “My father, last autumn.  Suicide.”

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Violet said.  “But just remember you don’t have to go through it alone.”

For a moment Scarlett couldn’t speak, her mind filled with the rush of guilt and sorrow brought on by memory: George and what she had done to him, and her father Walter Marlowe, and what he’d done to himself.

“Violet, have you ever made a mistake so grave that no matter what you did, it couldn’t be fixed?

“We all have regrets, Scarlett, and we all make mistakes.  Some of them are bigger than others, and you’re right.  Some _can’t_ be fixed.  What matters is that we try.  Sometimes that’s all we can do, and hope that it’s enough.”  Violet smiled and patted her arm, and Scarlett felt as though a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders.  “You should get some rest, dear.  I won’t chatter your ear off any longer.  I can wake you when we get close.”

“Thank you, Violet,” Scarlett said, impulsively covering the old woman’s hands with her own.  “For everything.”

* * *

 Scarlett felt like she had barely closed her eyes when the chime of the seatbelt light and Violet's gentle hand on her shoulder startled her awake.  By the time they touched tarmac in New York, Scarlett felt more rested than she had in weeks.

Violet rose first, as she was on the aisle.  She retrieved her carry-on bag from the overhead compartment and Scarlett was amused to see a paperback mystery novel in the mesh side pocket, along with a photo of Violet hugging two gap-toothed boys in a clear plastic display sleeve.

"Your grandsons?" Scarlett said, indicating the photo as she waited for her turn to get up.

Violet beamed. "James and Stan, named after their grandfathers.  James is nine and Stan is six."

"They really are beautiful boys. You must be very proud."

Violet nodded. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Scarlett." She pressed a folded note into Scarlett's hand. "If you're ever back in New York, I'd love to visit with you again."

“Of course, Violet, thank you," Scarlett said. She glanced at the note as Violet moved away down the aisle -- an address and phone number, along with the words _you’re not alone_.  Scarlett felt tears prickle at her eyes and suddenly she missed her parents -- both of them -- very much. She slipped the note into her father's journal and made to disembark the plane.

It took Scarlett under an hour to clear customs, but the stress of traveling and jet lag was catching up to her quickly.  Her flight had arrived on time, so her layover at JFK would be just under two hours.  Right now she wanted nothing more than a hot meal and a nap -- but it was one in the afternoon local time, and Scarlett didn’t want to risk missing her connecting flight to Rhode Island.  Besides, she had a lecture to prepare for.

* * *

Scarlett stepped down from the podium with the polite applause of the audience in her ears.  Her lecture had been surprisingly well-attended, though she suspected most of the slouching, half-asleep undergraduate students had been coerced under threat of bad marks.  She smiled knowingly to herself.  She’d been one of them, once; she knew how it was.

“Dr. Marlowe?”

She turned.  A broad-shouldered black man towered over her, dressed in a green plaid button-down shirt and jeans, a canvas backpack hanging off one shoulder.  He had a wide, honest face and a spark in his eye that was absent from most of the other students here under duress.  He stuck out his hand.  “I’m Benji.  Could we get some coffee and talk, maybe?”

_Was that a pick up?_  Scarlett hesitated before shaking his hand, and tried to find a way to graciously refuse.  “Oh -- well, I’m rather tired.  Perhaps another time?”

Benji dropped his eyes and stuck his hands in his pockets.  “Oh.  I was interested in hearing more about your research on the philosopher’s stone.  I’m, uh, looking for a subject for a documentary I’m filming for my senior capstone project.  Are you sure we can’t just sit down?  Half an hour, tops.”

“Alright.”

It was a short, pleasant walk across the quad to the student union.  Early September in Rhode Island meant the weather still held the memory of summer, and the students were still unburdened by the stress of exams.  The university coffee shop buzzed with activity.  They got their coffees and found a seat in the back corner of the shop, where it was a bit quieter, and Scarlett stirred a generous quantity of milk and sugar into her paper cup.

“So, Dr. Marlowe --”

“Please, call me Scarlett.”

“Alright . . . Scarlett.  You’ve already started your search for the philosopher’s stone?”

“Yes, well, in the interest of full disclosure, I feel I should warn you,” Scarlett started.  George’s furious words came unbidden into her mind.   _“Nothing good can come of this, Scarlett!”_  She shook her head to clear it.  “Sorry.  I should warn you, the philosopher’s stone is considered by many to be a myth.”

“But not you.”

“No.” Scarlett took a delicate sip of her coffee.  “My father dedicated his life’s work to finding it, and I believe it does exist.  However, I am more interested in the historical and anthropological implications.  I don’t believe there is any sort of treasure to be found, or any mystical powers associated with it.  My interest is strictly academic.”

“I understand,” Benji said.  “I’ll admit, I’m taking an Intro to Archaeology course this semester to satisfy two general requirements in order to graduate, and my professor offered us extra credit to attend your lecture,” he said sheepishly.  “I’m actually a film major, and like I said before, I need a subject for my senior capstone project.  I’ve been wanting to get into documentary work.  I was intrigued by your description of the lore.  Do you have an expedition planned?  What’s your next move?”

“Well, I recently returned from a trip to Turkey and Iran to find the Rose Key,” Scarlett explained.  She withdrew her father’s journal from her bag and opened it to the last few pages.  “Just before he died, my father pinpointed its location, and I went there with an associate to find it.  It’s a code, you see.  I believe Nicholas Flamel used the Rose Key to encode the location of the philosopher’s stone.”

“Alright, I follow you so far,” Benji said.  “So what’s next?”

“Paris,” she said.  “It’s where Nicholas Flamel’s tomb is, and likely where he hid the stone.”  She took a deep breath.  “It’s rather serendipitous to have met you, Benji.  While in Turkey, my associate and I discussed whether or not we should film our trip.  I have the raw footage, if you’d like to see it.  It might be useful for your documentary, if you do choose my work as the subject.”

Benji grinned and extended his hand.  “I’d be honored,” he said, and they shook on it.  He scribbled down his contact information.  “Will your associate be joining us?”

“Oh.” Scarlett’s smile faded. “I don’t think so.  I will need time to find another Aramaic translator before we can proceed.  And I’m sure you’ll need to make travel arrangements and acquire the proper film equipment, of course.”  She slid a business card across the table as she stood up.  “I look forward to working with you.  I’ll be in touch.”

* * *

Months later, when Benji and Scarlett were racing down the stairs of Notre Dame with George’s bells thundering in their ears, Scarlett thought of Violet and wished she could tell her she was right -- life did have a funny way of working out for the best.

 

 


End file.
